She looked at him as steadily as she could and took a deep breath. ‘I hope you’ll be part of my family one day. It’s too soon yet for me to promise that you can stay with me when you get out, but—’
Roy burst out laughing and leaned across to clasp both her hands and lift them to his lips to bestow a gallant kiss. ‘My darling girl, is that what you thought? No, I have somewhere to go. I told you, I own a house. That’s not what I meant at all! Besides,’ he added with a mischievous smile, ‘if I had, I would have asked straight out. I don’t like insinuation.’
At that moment the bell rang to mark the end of visits. But afterwards, as Tessa waited for the succession of gates and doors to be opened, soothed by the electronic whooshing, she retraced the trail of their conversation and couldn’t see why else he would have remarked upon the importance of having a home to go out to. Roy had never before alluded to either parole or his release. It gave her such a pang of sympathy: she and her father were so alike. Whatever he said about straight-talking, they shared the same weakness, that neither could bear to ask for help.
As she stepped out of the transparent holding pen with a group of other visitors she remembered the missing holiday snaps. It was the red-haired officer, Janice, who was accompanying them, and Tessa turned to her. ‘Excuse me, but apparently some photographs I handed in on my last visit were never received.’ She felt the awkwardness of not knowing how to refer to Roy (inmate? prisoner? her father?) and wondered how much the woman already knew.
‘They may turn up if you wait,’ Janice told her, not unkindly. ‘Sometimes the system can be a bit slow.’ Tessa thought she seemed embarrassed. ‘If not, then you can write to the Number Two Governor.’
‘Ok, thanks.’
The officer nodded and walked away.
Retrieving her handbag from the locker in the Visitors’ Centre, Tessa recognised the woman beside her as the mother of the angelic young man. ‘I hope your son gets his parole,’ Tessa said impulsively. Seeing the woman’s anger, she instantly regretted her words, afraid she’d crossed some hidden line, that maybe visitors weren’t supposed to intrude on one another. ‘My father told me he’s up for parole,’ she explained quickly, trying to placate her.
‘Fuck him!’ said the woman, slamming the metal door of the locker with such force that it bounced open again. ‘Roy Weaver playing his nasty little mind games. He knows fucking well my boy’s got a whole-life tariff.’ The woman slammed the locker door shut. ‘And fuck you, too!’ She walked off.
In the car driving back to Felixham, it occurred to Tessa that she must have got muddled and been mistaken that the woman beside her at the lockers was the young man’s mother.
THIRTY-ONE
Mitch’s journey from the station to the gates of Tamsin’s school was not as straightforward as the directions she’d texted had led him to believe. So far, he’d had to stop and ask three times – once in a pub, once from someone at a bus stop and once from a woman walking a dog. She had looked at him rather suspiciously, and he hoped she wasn’t a teacher. Tamsin had told him to come at five o’clock when it was easier for her to skip games or other activities, but she’d have to be back in time for supper. It had taken him hours to get here, and he was worried about being late because they’d have so little time together as it was. He hadn’t seen her since half-term, and although they had used every available means to communicate, the imminence of her physical presence now seemed unreal, as if their earlier magical few days together had been a dream.
Finding his way here was simpler than attempting to meet in London at a weekend when Charlie’s unpredictability made planning impossible – even though Charlie was indirectly responsible for his journey. Tamsin had phoned him in tears the previous weekend after she’d walked in on her dad kissing Quinn. Although Charlie had insisted that Tamsin had misunderstood, that it was just a friendly peck on the cheek, a thank-you for an extra task Quinn had taken on, Tamsin had convinced herself that the reason her mum was staying in California for the summer was not because principal photography on the film she was attached to had been brought forward, but because her parents were getting divorced. Which meant she’d have to spend the rest of her life playing gooseberry to her dad and Quinn. Lacerated by Tamsin’s misery, Mitch had felt useless. It was weeks before the end of term, and even then Charlie might choose to stay in London. Mitch had longed to be old enough to say he’d get in a car and be right there, but he couldn’t. Nor could he even begin to explore the depths of his contempt for Charlie.
He knew he was taking a risk skiving off school, and hoped he wouldn’t get caught; so long as he could blag his way out of it, and the school didn’t contact his parents, it shouldn’t matter too much. All the same, he didn’t like the giddy sensation that came from everyone believing him to be in some other place, when in fact no one except Tamsin knew where he was. Living by the sea, he was used to a constant horizon, but here inland he was very aware of the vast vault of sky. He felt very tiny beneath it, and it gave him a sense of being weirdly untethered, of belonging nowhere.
Here at last, beside a discreet royal-blue board with gold lettering, were the school gates. They opened onto a driveway leading between playing fields and shrubberies up to a grand Victorian building flanked by modern extensions. Tamsin’s text instructed him to find the public footpath signposted a few hundred yards further on; it led over farmland that bordered the school grounds, and she would be able to wait for him beside a stile, out of sight of the main school buildings. Now he was nervous for, despite the luxury of Tamsin’s home in Felixham, the present reality of her elite school gave him a pang of doubt. At home they’d been in their own bubble, but now he recognised how little he belonged in this world. What if he didn’t get on with her friends – or even want to? What if they viewed him as some bit of rough from a rural comprehensive, the kind of person the high fence bordering these immaculate grounds was designed to keep out? He knew Tamsin wasn’t like that, but everything in her life was as perfect as this. All any of the girls at a school like this had to do was ask and they could have it now, and have it delivered. He felt as ignorant of her life as she was of the plumbing, catering and endless laundry of the B&B.
‘Mitch!’
He looked up and there she was, sitting on the wooden stile in a pair of frayed denim shorts, a vest and flip-flops, her hair and skin the exact shade of honey that he remembered against the crisp white sheets in her bedroom. She jumped down and came to meet him. All his doubts disappeared and he cupped her soft face in his hands and kissed and kissed her. He wanted to make love to her right there and then, but pulled back, holding her by the waist and laughing. She smiled, and everything in the world was safe again: all the days of missing her, all his fears and anxieties about both their families vanished, and the ground beneath his feet felt steady and firm once more.
‘I’m so glad to see you,’ said Tamsin.
‘And me you. Are you Ok?’
She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I thought my Spanish lesson would never end.’
‘I was afraid I’d get lost.’
‘But you’re here now.’
‘I’m here.’ Mitch kissed her again, savouring the familiarity of her lips, the way their tongues combined, the shape of her hips beneath his hands. Each kiss was never simply itself, but the memory of every other kiss, of every other physical encounter.
‘We should get away from here in case we’re spotted.’ She took his hand. ‘I know a place.’
She led the way up towards a stand of trees. Even while he watched her move ahead of him, light and lithe, he resented how they had to skulk and hide. He had to suppress the rage he increasingly felt against these so-called adults whose self-centredness caused so much trouble.
They had reached the top of the path, and Tamsin led him over the brow of the hill to where there was a scoop of earth missing, as if a tree had fallen and the root rotted away to leave this natural bivouac. From the half-buried cigarette butts and an
empty vodka bottle, he imagined it was a frequent haunt of girls from her school. The ground was dry, and they sat together with their backs against the rising ground, out of sight of anyone coming from behind them and with a clear view down into the woods and fields below. He put an arm around her and pulled her close.
‘You Ok?’ he repeated.
‘Not really.’ She laid her head on his shoulder and let herself cry while he stroked her hair and spoke soothing words. He understood that her wretchedness was real, a grief at how easily her world could be broken and trampled on without her consent. She was helpless and alone, and he was glad he was here.
‘Mum did sound pleased about the job,’ Tamsin managed to say at last. ‘It’s the kind of work she’s always wanted. She said she hoped I was old enough not to begrudge her. And I don’t. Of course I don’t. But …’
Mitch knew it was no good searching his pockets; he didn’t possess either tissues or a handkerchief. Instead he offered her the corner of his unbuttoned shirt, and was rewarded by her watery smile.
‘I know how much you miss your mum,’ he said. ‘But I’d’ve been unbelievably miserable if you’d spent the summer in America.’
She snuggled her head into his shoulder. ‘Me too. I just want Mum to come home.’
‘She will.’
‘I hate Quinn.’
Mitch worked out how best to phrase his newly acquired wisdom. ‘She’s not worth it. You have to think about yourself. Your life will be much easier if you don’t hate her.’
‘But if I don’t hate Quinn, then I’d have to hate my dad.’
Mitch nodded. ‘Yeah, I see that.’ He didn’t know what to say, other than some platitude, but that still seemed better than nothing. ‘It’ll blow over.’
‘So you do think there’s something going on?’
Mitch cursed himself. ‘I think Quinn’s got a crush on him. He is Captain Gorgeous, after all.’
Tamsin made a gurgling sound that was half laugh, half sob, but Mitch could feel the tension seep out of her body.
‘It’ll be all right. You’ve got me.’
‘And you’ve got me.’
They sat silently for a while, contemplating the view. The first shadows were just beginning to lengthen, and there was a slight rustle of beech leaves above them. Mitch wanted to tell her about the man in prison. It felt selfish to burden her when she had her own woes, but he had to tell someone.
‘My mum’s tracked down her biological father,’ he said at last. ‘My grandfather.’
‘Have you met him?’
He did not answer and, as she turned to him, struggled not to blurt out the rest.
‘What is it, Mitch?’
‘He’s in prison for murder.’
‘Wow! That’s pretty hardcore.’ Tamsin stroked his fingers. ‘Sorry,’ she said simply.
‘Bad blood.’
‘Why? He’s not, like, some famous serial killer or something?’
‘No. But he did actually kill someone.’
Her laugh was consoling. ‘I don’t think being a murderer is genetic.’ She had unerringly voiced Mitch’s worst fear, and he looked at her, trying to gauge her true opinion, to see if she would now turn away from him in disgust.
‘He’s nothing to do with you,’ she assured him.
‘My mum visits him. I worry about her.’
‘Can’t you go with her?’
‘Apparently not. And I can’t go on my own till I’m eighteen.’ Mitch had found this out for himself.
‘Does he have any other family?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So find out,’ said Tamsin. ‘See what they make of him. Get yourself some cousins.’
He nodded, comforted by the common sense of her reaction. Maybe, despite watching the calamitous self-control with which Hugo had contained his distress by the willow-fringed river in Cambridge, a parent’s agonised love for his grown-up child, it was just a matter of keeping things in proportion.
Despite the sunlight, the sharp crescent of a pale setting moon perched low in the sky, and Mitch could just begin to make out a single star high above it. Tamsin snuggled up to him again, kissing his cheek, whispering that everything would be all right.
Mitch knew he’d have to go soon, but right here and now, with his arm around her, he was content. Suddenly he sensed a movement in the bushes ahead of them and a young fox, its brush held aloft, emerged from among the tree trunks. Silhouetted against the skyline, it looked directly at him, its ears pricked and one front paw suspended in mid-air. It paused just long enough to give Mitch the chance to note the neat line of black around its jaw and its inquisitive yellow eyes before it turned away and stepped delicately down the hill and out of sight.
Tamsin’s grip tightened on his: she had seen it too. She sighed, as if she had been holding her breath, and he saw how her enchantment matched his.
‘Who’s that?’ demanded a sharp voice behind them. They sprang apart and looked around. ‘Tamsin Crawford. You’re out of bounds. I wouldn’t have expected this of you.’
Tamsin scrambled to her feet, brushing off the mulch of dirt and dead leaves. ‘Mrs Sanderson!’
‘And who are you?’ demanded the teacher.
‘Mitch Parker. I’m a friend of Tamsin’s.’
‘From where?’
‘From home. From Felixham.’
‘You’ve come a long way.’ She looked him up and down before turning back to Tamsin. ‘Does your house mistress know you’re here?’
‘No.’
Her gaze returned to Mitch. ‘And do you have written permission from Tamsin’s parents to visit her?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’ve no right to be here.’ She turned back to Tamsin, taking in her skimpy vest and shorts. ‘Your parents will have to be informed.’
Mrs Sanderson cast her eyes around the litter of earth and leaves and her gaze came to rest on the empty vodka bottle. ‘Just what have you been up to?’ she demanded.
It infuriated Mitch that this woman expected them to tolerate her rudeness merely because of their relative age and position. He wanted to fight for Tamsin in some way, but feared to make matters worse.
‘Come with me,’ Mrs Sanderson ordered Tamsin.
Powerless, Mitch felt both desperate and ridiculous. Tamsin pressed his hand and, before she scrambled up the slope and walked away, turned to give him a brave smile that broke his heart.
THIRTY-TWO
Hearing Mitch come in, Tessa called out to him. He put his head around the door of the guests’ sitting room where she sat with Declan.
‘You’re late.’ She saw how beat he looked. ‘Everything Ok?’
Mitch nodded and then roused himself to greet Declan, maintaining the same polite distance that he’d kept up so carefully over the past couple of weeks.
‘There’s cold chicken in the fridge, if you’re hungry,’ she told him.
‘Thanks. Maybe later.’ He disappeared. She listened to his footsteps drag upstairs and wondered if maybe she should go after him. But Declan cut in, continuing their interrupted conversation.
‘So,’ he said. ‘You’re getting to know your daddy quite well?’
She gathered her thoughts – she would check on Mitch later. ‘Actually,’ she answered happily, ‘it’s been mainly about me. He’s been like a real dad. He listens and encourages and gives me a fresh perspective. Look.’ She held out her arm. ‘He sent me this for my birthday.’
Declan spun the gold band around her wrist, his fingers brushing her skin. ‘It’s pretty,’ he agreed. ‘How did he manage it?’
‘I think one of the officers must’ve helped him. I didn’t recognise the handwriting on the package.’
‘Really? Can they do that? Sounds like someone took a bit of a risk.’
Tessa smiled. ‘Roy wouldn’t want to get anyone into trouble.’
‘He’s still not keen on going into too much detail about himself then?’
‘He’s told me what happened
,’ she replied. ‘Said he hadn’t wanted to burden me with it.’
‘And?’
‘It’s private, you know? It was sad and difficult for him to talk about. He regrets it very much.’
Declan looked doubtful. ‘And you trust him on that?’
‘Yes. Why would he lie?’
‘Lots of reasons.’
‘He’s in prison. What would he gain by lying now?’
‘You.’
Tessa laughed and waved the remark aside. ‘What have I got to offer, other than being his daughter? And if I don’t trust his sincerity towards me, then what is there to trust?’
‘If your daddy takes after you, so to speak, then I’m sure he’s a good man.’
Tessa was pleased. Mitch and Hugo’s stricken faces in Cambridge had made her wretched, and she yearned for them, like Declan, to be willing to understand her and to accept her evaluation of events. She sipped her wine, trying to recapture the intense concentration of the prison visits room, of how even a single hour there had to stand in for everything else that was excluded and prohibited, how real those hours felt. She would like to explain that to Declan too. ‘Things have been pretty fraught here,’ she told him. ‘It’s been nice to have someone who cares about me.’
Declan leant forward and lightly touched her thigh. ‘I’m sure you know what you’re doing.’
Tessa guessed his touch was meant as a gesture of reassurance, but it was also what she desired. She had known that afternoon, before Declan arrived, that if he still showed interest then she would accept. She had even made some excuse to move him from his usual room into one that did not lie below either of her children’s bedrooms. She had made up her mind – or rather, it seemed to Tessa, her mind had made itself up – on those nights when she felt most alone. The first time had been after Sam’s opening party. Feeling superfluous and abandoned, she’d panicked and, searching for comfort, let herself imagine how it would be to have Declan in bed with her. She’d been surprised at how swiftly and vividly her little fantasy had taken hold, and more than once since then had escaped into a mild eroticism.
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